We’d stuffed the various bits and pieces we’d used back into the respective homes in the bags and after giving up on getting any help from the staff, lugged our bags down the 3 flights of stairs to reception. We’d hoped to get a reasonable start, that wasn’t going to happen!

The large iron steel gates that had protected our bikes were still locked. Back into reception and I’d asked politely for the keys and for the gates to be unlocked, we wanted leave and we’d paid the bill. Only now did it turn out that the land belonged to someone else, they’d need paying and the hotel had no key. To make matters more frustrating, there was no one in the house the land belonged to. Over an hour later and I was ready to take a blow torch to the sodding gates. I was loosing my rag. OK, charge us but as a hotel if you offer parking, no matter whose fucking land it is, you need to make sure you have access to the facility. Eventually one of the hotel staff walked into town and finally found the land owner and key keeper at one of the supermarkets.

With the bikes at last outside the hotel we loaded up, cursing under our breath. The new Toyota Land cruiser we’d seen leave much earlier this morning was making it’s way back down the cobbled street to the hotel. Strange? We’d spoken to the young Japanese film crew who’d rented the car and discussed their onward journey. What are they doing back here? Shit! The Toyota looked awful, large chunks of paintwork had been taken off the bonnet, sides and roof. Even the metal fabric of the car had been dented. ‘Bloody hell, what’s happened to them we both asked ourselves’? 5 young men climbed out of the vehicle all looking a little shaken. 15 minutes later and after gingerly asking, we’d found the cause of the problem and were now more concerned about our own onward journey. The local campesinos were protesting at not being given free access to the Copacabana church…their church, and so they’d blockaded the road both into and out of Copacabana. Large groups were manning the blockades and had whipped themselves up into a stone throwing frenzy at anyone who even looked like they were going to try and get through. Shit, what the hell were we going to do? At least in a car you’re protected from the barrage of rocks. On the bikes we’d be easy targets.

There was no clever answer we’d simply have to have a go and see what happens. We’d canvassed a few opinions from locals who unconvincingly had told us we’d be fine…Mmm?

With the bikes loaded we made our way up to the main road and in second gear had crept out of town with the bizarre idea that if we went slowly we’d be less conspicuous. 1 Km out of town we paused for thought; hundreds of rocks and boulders had been spread across the road. An effective blockade, anything other than a 4X4 or a bike wasn’t going to get over them. We carefully picked our way through, mindfully keeping an eye out for pissed off looking campesinos.

So far we’d seen a few kids but no adults. Another 2 km further and our next challenge was a little larger. They’d felled two large trees that had been on opposites banks of the road. Right now they were lying right across the route that until a few days ago used to be the principal road to the border. Our luck was still holding, they’d fallen with just enough gap in between them for our bikes to squeeze through. With the panniers on it was close. The foliage and branches strewn on the road weren’t making life easier.

On the other side we knew we’d been spotted. An older couple had been watching inquisitively. We rode up a little nervously wondering ‘where’s the rest of their gang’. With a few ‘olas’ exchanged we weren’t picking up any hostile vibes, quite the opposite. They were on their way up to the main blockade to see their son. After a few minutes of chat we’d agreed to save them the walk and pass on the message. We were being mercenary; we’d hoped that with a message in hand we’d been looked on a little more favourably and maybe not stoned to death? 10 Minutes later and we’d crawled along in 1st gear another few kilometres and made our way through another blockade of rocks and boulders. The 5 or so young men on the hill side had watched us pass, maybe thought about lobbing a few and then thought better of it, disarmed by the grinning from the two of us and some nerdy cheerful waiving. So far so good.

Over the small rise of the road the main blockade came into view. We were crawling along thinking ‘please don’t hurt us, please don’t hurt us’. We still had the message to pass on, our secret weapon. 80-100 people stood right across the road. With our helmets wide open exposing our ‘big dopey nervous smiley faces’ we were riding closer shouting ‘ola, Buenos dias’. 5 or so of the main organizers walk towards us, OK now was the time. Before they’d had a chance to say anything I’d blurted a few more hellos and mustering my best Spanish asked if Juan Carlos….I (I forget his last name) was still here. A look of surprise flashed between the 5 faces. Sure enough he was here and was called over with a yell. I have a message from his father. Juan Carlos pitched up a young earnest looking guy, maybe in his mid 20’s. Still astride my bike I shook his hand firmly and offered him my congratulations. The look of shock on his face was a picture. Here’s the message I passed. ‘I have met your parents and they ask you return home quickly, your wife has gone into labour and your first child is arriving now. The 30 or so crowd that had now encircled us erupted in cheers and yells of celebration. Lisa was being hit on the back so hard and so enthusiastically in appreciation I thought she was going to fall off the bike. I continued to ask If it was possible for us to pass. With the main group still cheering, we had stones and logs moved in front and like mosses and the red sea the group parted down the centre and we rode through. We were both in shock we’d pulled this off. Not a dent or a stone thrown. Needless to say it was a topic of conversation well into the night for us.

A short 15km further and we’d arrived at the border. The border guards and officials who all thought they’d have the day off with no-one getting through looked surprised to see us but were friendly enough. We related our story to the now smiling audience. All in all paperwork out of Bolivia and into Peru had taken us about an hour. It felt great to be in our 45th country. Bolivia had been stunning and the Altiplano had been as tough as it had been beautiful but we were ready for a change.

We’d hoped to get in a long day and reach Arequipa but it was now apparent we’d overstretched. There was no way we’d get that far. We’d aim for Puno a small city some 80 miles up the road and still on the edge of Lago Titicaca. Our route was still going to have a few more surprises in store before we reached Puno. We’d been riding at a steady pace and had past a handful of small dusty townships. We’d ridden down into another and were cruising in around 3rd mindful of animals and kids. I’d spotted the German Sheppard sized pooch off to my right in advance and had slowed when I’d seen him run out in front of the car ahead and into the path of the huge blue juggernaut steaming in the opposite direction. He’d missed the wheels of the truck by inches as he barked and bit at the spinning wheels. There was no time for me to do anything. He’d already turned and was now diving in front of me. I had to come off the brakes or I’d be off. The damp thud I’d felt seconds later had confirmed the worst and sent the front of my bike skywards. Back on the gas things quickly settled. Lisa’s shocked voice over the Autocom had confirmed the dog was dead.. We rode in silence until the outskirts of Puno. Well, with the exception of me yelling to Lisa that an idiot in a truck was overtaking on her side of the road on a blind corner up a hill and heading towards her. She just had time to swerve off the road.

Puno was larger than we’d expected and after 20 minutes of scouting the hotels and being more than a little alarmed at the prices we found ourselves at the hotel ‘Don Julian’ (we’d been helped by a recommendation.) They’d even helped with the bags and cleared a passage way as we were directed to park our bikes in the mirrored reception hallway. We’d get good nights sleep knowing the bikes were safe.

The 112 was taking us back up and by mid-day Arequipa was seemingly no closer. The temperature had dropped; we were back up at 10,500 feet and fumbling with zips as we rode, to now close opened air vents that had earlier been cooling us. The winding zigzag road was clocking up the miles but not getting us any closer to Bob’s. By late afternoon finally Arequipa was coming into view. Wow this place is huge we thought. A sprawling dusty mass of old and new buildings with a clean colonial plaza bang in the centre. We were just following the heaviest traffic which we’d guessed was heading towards the centre.

Off the bikes we reached the main plaza. Two huge cathedrals’ and dozens of two storey buildings with lines of colonial arches marked out the plaza; the elegant fountain in the centre was the eye catcher. OK, we needed a phone. We’d already worked out that Arequipa was a maze, our chances of finding Bobs on our own were pretty slim, well not without a few hours of hassle anyway.

Bob had answered the phone and agreed to come get us. Great, an escort.

The familiar hum of a F650GS caught our attention way before Bob came into view. The broad grin of an Englishman who been away from the UK and the rain for a while was unmistakable. ‘Ello, you alright then’ Bob chirped. Some 30 minutes later and with Bob as escort we’d ridden through town and out the other side. It turns out that the house is Angie’s parents. They’re away right now in Lima hopefully we’ll meet them when they get back.

Angie’s brothers, Alan and Paulo, are also living there but they have their own apartments attached to the main family home.

We’ve been here in Arequipa now for 3 weeks and it’s been pretty non-stop, so much so that the diary has taken a back seat, so here’s the précis:

Bob and Angie (his girl friend) had welcomed us like old friends, even though we’d only communicated via email. Bob’s a laugh a minute, just check out his diary on his website www.smellybiker.com and you’ll see what I mean. It was great to be on the receiving end of that notorious and very ‘English’ sense of humour. True to his word Bob and Angie’s brothers Alan and Paulo were to hand to give advice and help re my now infamous bike problems.

Following Bob’s advice we’d headed across town to see Paul who owned a garage who had a good reputation for working on fuel injection systems and other related problems. I’d had a closer look at the big GS and had a few ideas of my own. After Paul’s more professional eye had scanned the bike we had a plan, we’d take off the injectors and get them hose cleaned, remove the air intake and throttle bodies and get new ones fabricated. With the air intakes off we could easily see the sizeable gaps between the butterfly valves and the induction tubes where air would be passing and entering the cylinders. The post and bushes looked pretty worn too; we’d get those done at the same time. Paul had taken me around to see ‘the maestro’ who’d be machine-milling my new parts. The old guy in the back of his scruffy yard with ancient equipment wasn’t what I expected…but, I’ve learnt that during my time on the road that it’s the man that makes the product not the machine. If Paul trusted him, I would as well.

We could feel the pounds piling on. We’d now been at Bob and Angie's for over a week and with Angie cooking up a storm at breakfast, lunch and dinner time we were swelling. Bloody fantastic!

It had taken a little longer to get the parts back from the maestro than we’d been told but it didn’t matter. Mike (Mother) had pitched a few days back with his own ‘bike issue’s’, we’d last seen him way back in Puerto San Julian in Argentina. I figured the more helping hands the better. ‘The Maestro’ had done a brilliant job. New stainless steel posts had been machined and looked great, the new bushes held the new posts perfectly and the new butterfly valves fitted to within a micro-millimetre. Now all we had to do was get this stuff back on the bike and get everything reset. The only part I was a little nervous about was resetting the ultra-sensitive TPS, which normally required one of BMW’s fancy big computers to be hooked up. We’d done a little surfing and found info on the same process using a simple volt meter, and a paper clip…mmm, this’ll be interesting?

Hah, it worked brilliantly and before long we had the big girl roaring like her old self. I was smiling so much I had cramp in my cheeks.

It was Mike’s R850GS’s turn for a little attention and so over the next few days we stripped the rear sub-frame and got her ready for some welding. Mike had large cracks right through his sub-frame on both sides. It took us 3 days to get the welding done right, everything lined up to where it should be and then the sub-frame back on. In-between time we had an appointment with Peruvian TV. A film crew had got wind of Bob’s journey, our own and Mikes and so we’d been scheduled to appear on 3 shows. The time and place had been set and cameras started rolling. A camera guy had jumped on the back of Lisa’s bike, a girlie on the back of my bike and Mike’s and Angie on the back of Bob’s. It had been a pretty fun day blatting around Arequipa like the hooligans we are. It had although been a close call as we’d only finished Mike’s bike at 2:00am on the morning of the shoot.

OK, what else? Lisa’s bike had a new set of crash-bars made. The great bars that Alf had made-up back in South Africa had taken a hammering and so with the eager help of Alan, Angie’s brother, out came the welding gear and a week later Lisa’s shiny new additions were on. The biggest change had been the design, with the new bars not obstructing the quick release systems of Lisa’s auxiliary fuel tanks.

Our nights have been more than a little interesting. I’m trying to remember but I’m sure we’ve had at least 3 big’ish tremors since we’ve been here, when I say big’ish I mean violent enough to wake us at night. That was a first for us!

Ah, I’m sure I’ve forgotten loads but in the end we had a great time and feel ourselves really lucky to be able to call Bob, Angie, Paulo and Alan friends. Without their kind help we wouldn’t have managed to get half the stuff we did done.

Our last few days were spent walking Arequipa itself a highlight being our visit to the Santa Catalina convent. With its bright orange and blue exterior and calming pastel interior it was great to photograph. Check out the photos.

It’s time to go but it’ll be hard to say goodbye.

The fast bends of the mountain road that was leading us out of Arequipa felt great. After nursing Tinkerbelle for so long, she was, again, feeling like her old self.

We’d set ourselves a big target; time and luck willing we’d be in Cusco tonight. We already had butterflies in our stomachs thinking that in just a few days more we’d be in Machu Picchu, the legendary forgotten city of the Incas. My mind was wandering. I needed to stay focused; we still had a long day ahead us.

The air had become cooler, we were climbing back into the sky and had reached 10,000 feet faster than we’d realised. We fumbled with zips as we one-handedly tried to do up vents on our jackets without loosing too much speed.

We’d kept a good pace but had slowed as we entered a small village. 20 or so small dusty mud brick buildings lined both sides of the main route we were using, we’d got into the habit of slowing, we’d seen way to many vacant pedestrians and dogs stroll into our path. The small group of 6 darkly dressed women sitting on their haunches on my right had caught my attention, but then so had the toddler who was playing unchecked in the road. Right now he was running around in circles in the right lane of the road, this didn’t feel good!

What happened now defies belief, well actually having travelled so extensively, sadly for us it doesn’t.

I was already on the brakes…thank god. The toddler was casting sporadic and terrified glances back at one of the women, all of whom hadn’t moved. All of them were still sat there, blank faced. This was wrong; one or all of them should be up by now, rushing to grab the little boy out of harms way. I grabbed the brakes harder. Still wearing his terrified little face and now on shaking legs, he ran on his in front of me. My wheel screeched and slid in protest against the dark asphalt surface, I needed to control the skid. My heart had already launched itself into my mouth and now was hurtling south again towards my stomach. None of the women had moved so much as a muscle.

More angst, confused and terrified glances were being shot at the women and then it happened. Having raced in front of me, he’d turned stumbled, picked himself up and protested quietly his mothers will, and then succombed. The instruction had been silent but clear; he was to run back and in front of me. Still not a move from the women. Not one panicked scream, not a single moment of vocal anguish. Nothing.

Pushing his tiny legs forward he was running again. “For God’s sake stop, please stop” I thought to myself. I was silently talking as much about the little boy as I was to my still skidding motorbike. His tiny, fragile body was almost under the bike. I was now going side-ways, the back wheel had moved out. My mind was racing, predicting the inevitable.

It didn’t happen! By some miracle, he’d stumbled and fallen to his knees at the last second. Lisa was tell me later that he’d fallen under my right pannier, his head had missed the heavy metal pannier by cm’s and his body had missed my wheels by even less.

By the time I’d come to a full stop he’d reached the women, his terrified wails now interrupted by gasping sobs. One of the women eventually stood, grasped him by the elbow, raising his arm high and walked him off slowly. Not a relieved hug in sight. Why? Because they weren’t relieved. It hadn’t been an accident; they didn’t have a tourist to throw fake mournful screams at, and still one more child to feed. Yes that’s the old hard truth of it. I leave you to think on it a while.

Lisa and I rode on, sobered by the whole experience; we didn’t talk much for a few hours.

We were winding our way back up to Juliaca where we’d turn North for Cusco. We’d taken onboard some local advice and had been told that the longer asphalt route up to Cusco would be faster. We still had along way to go.

We’d stopped for gas, a coke and sandwich around 3:00pm but where now getting concerned. It would start to get dark soon and he dark water soaked clouds we’d seen this morning were now over-head. The last thing we wanted was to arrive in Cusco at night or in the rain…or both.

By 6:00pm we knew two things; 1 Cusco was ‘do’able’ today but we were going to arrive in town in the dark. 2, we were going to get soaked. We’d pulled over in a small gas station to put on our water-proofs just as 10 or so bikers on smaller off-road machine did the same from the opposite direction. Europeans on a guided off-road jolly. We chatted with the mixed bunch for 15 minutes or so, trying to put off the inevitable. We both wanted to stop right now.

With farewells exchanged we rode out into the night. A few kilometres further and our progress was to be stopped again. Lisa had crossed some old, smooth and now wet railway lines. Her bike had wildly slid out. She’d done her best to correct it but she was going down and hard. I’d u-turned as fast as I could but the time I’d reached her 3 young local guys had come to her aid and even righted the bike. The new crash bars had taken the brunt of the impact. Parked up behind her, I’d flicked on my hazard warning lights to protect us both. With Lisa and the bike checked over and both seemingly fine, we got ready to ride again.

“No, no, no”, I yelled loudly. Turning the ignitions didn’t nothing but make the starter motor go, click, click, click. The hazard lights even though on for only a few minutes had drained my obviously fucked up battery. The rain was now coming g down harder. Two tired, rain drenched English bikers stood for a few seconds, stamped their feet and then accepted the inevitable. We needed to unload both bikes and get out the jumper cables. Lisa’s bike needed to be stripped in order for us to get access to the seat, which has to come off to get access to the battery. Mine was the same. 30 minutes later and we’d unpacked all our luggage, reached the batteries jumped started my bike and reloaded both bikes. Where the ‘soddin hell’ hell is Cusco.

8:30pm was swinging around and we were still going. The blinding lights of the oncoming drivers who hadn’t yet found there dipped beams were becoming more than a nuisance.

We’d slowed up and were taking a long left hander that had been cut into the hillside on our right. I was squinting to see through the rain and the dark…Oh shit!!! The lights of the driver on my left had obscured my view. I’d had no chance to see the landslide that was now completely covering our side of the road. There was sure as hell no chance of stopping in time. I yelled a panicked warning at Lisa as I blipped the throttle. Sheer luck kicked in. In a second the bike was air-borne and so was I. My backside and legs thrown from contact with the bike. I’d hit soft water laiden earth and been sent skyward. It could so easily have been solid rock. Relieved to still be alive and joked with Lisa…”well that woke me up”.

We finally arrived in rain soaked and slippery Cusco at 10:30pm. It took us another hour of hunting to find a hostel that wasn’t going to cost us an arm and a leg and that had secure parking for the bikes. We eventually found one right of the main Plaza with huge wooden gates for security. At 5 pounds a night…bargain.

With a full English breaky downed we were sorted for the day.

We’ve spent the last few days just browsing the streets of this elegant and historic city, taken photo when we felt like it and spending tie in the variety of small tourism offices, each one more desperate to sell you Machu Picchu tour than the last.

At last we got it sorted. Sure, we considered riding up to Machu Picchu or at least getting as far as we could but the reality…the cost was going to be only around $50 each less per person than an organised tour.

We’d already done some investigating and found that security was going to be a big issue. We could the bikes as far as the hydro-electric plant some way off from Agua Caliente, where we’d have to leave them. That just didn’t sound good and would leave us feeling way to vulnerable.

We did manage to get some great night time photos of the plaza here, we ended up finding a small restaurant who gave us permission to use one of there plaza facing windows as a location.